Home, sweet, home!

IN the early 1940s, a medium lived in Ryley Avenue. One night my mother must have arranged to pay her a visit, but must have been unable to arrange for someone to look after me, so had to take me with her.

We walked up the darkened back street of Glen Avenue, past the cold black air raid shelters to the house. I was only young, but remember it well.

When we entered the house, which was full and in semi darkness, I had to stand at the back of the room for the duration of the proceedings.

I remember periods of quietness broken by screams and chants, followed by the shaking of bodies and the amens.

That night Count Dracula may have been showing at the Windsor Cinema, but this was more scary! At the close of the evening, when we left, my little legs could not get me home quick enough.

Mother's domain was the kitchen, which was very small. The sink was in front of the window at the side of which was the cooker - a small gas ring about six inches in diameter connected to a piece of rubber piping which ran down the wall. A meat-safe with it's metal grill was perched in the corner on a stand.

Most of the room was taken up by a large pair of wooden mangles and a dolly tub - how she managed to prepare food, cook on one ring, do the washing and keep the household ticking over from such a small space I do not know.

On washing day it was my job to wring out the washing by turning the mangle for her. I can see it now with splinters breaking off the wooden rollers and the grooves made by the clothing over the years. You had to watch every garment as it was wrung, in order that it did not wrap over the top roller and become entangled.

During that same period in my life, mother and father had decided that we were to leave my beloved Deane for a short period and live in Hunger Hill, Knutshaw Crescent.

This was not a happy time for me. It was a strange and alien and I had to be dragged there. The natives were not friendly, and one day a gang of the locals attacked me and stole my bike. I had been bought a bike (five shillings - 25p second-hand) to ease the pain of moving.

I ran home crying and in distress. Father told me it was my bike and what it had cost him, and for me to get it back at any cost! This I managed to do, but not without two bursted noses (one mine). After that I was in the gang.

I was still going to school at Brandwood Street, and had to travel from Hunger Hill every day on the tram with my gas mask, getting off by the park gates opposite Hawthorne Road.

On one occasion the conductor was upstairs and there was no sign of the tram slowing down. I desperately pulled on the bell rope three or four times before the conductor came running down the stairs demanding to know what was I doing. I quickly blurted out that I was going to school and required the approaching stop.

I was told that it was too late for the tram to stop and that I should jump off. He took my arm and guided me to the edge of the platform. His final words being that when I hit the road to start running - I did not jump - I did not have the bottle, but I was pushed.

I hit the road doing upwards of 30mph. The momentum flung me across the pavement. I hit the park wall and shot over the top into the rhododendron bushes with my gas mask wrapped round my neck.

What a start to the day! Apart from a few bruises, a few scratches, and a torn gas mask case, I was unscathed.

On arrival at school, I went into the toilets to clean up the blood and examine my injuries before making my way to the classroom.

The teacher asked me why I was in such an unkempt condition. I explained the circumstances, but these were frowned upon at the time and I was told to mend my ways.

Not even an aspirin!

Mother and father believed me, and to prevent any further incidents I was to get off in future at Hulton Lane and walk the rest of the way.

We left Hunger Hill and returned to "God's country" in Deane earlier than what had been planned, much to my delight.

All minute parts of life locked away for ever to be recalled with the passing of time.